and stepped back, standing tall and
silent, as if he waited for her blast of scorn. It did not come. She
was standing with hands pressed to her face, as if to cover some shame
or sorrow, or ease the throbbing of a soul-deep pain.

The sound of men and horses came from the corral. He stood, waiting
for judgment.

"Go now," she said, in a sad, small voice.

"Give me a token to carry away, to tell me I have not broken my golden
hope," he said.

"No, I'll give you nothing!" she declared, with the sharpness of one
wronged, and helpless of redress. "You have taken too much--you have
taken--"

"What?" he asked, as if he exulted in what he heard, his blood singing
in his ears.

"Oh, go--go!" she moaned, stripping off one long white glove and
throwing it to him.

He caught it, and pressed it to his lips; then snatching off his
bonnet, hid it there, and bent among the shrubbery and was gone, as
swiftly and silently as a wolf. Frances flew to the house and up the
stairs to her room. There she threw up the window and sat panting in
it, straining, listening, for sounds from the river road.

From below the voices of the revelers came, and the laughter over the
secrets half-guessed before masks were snatched away around the
banquet table. There was a dash of galloping hoofs from the corral,
the clatter of the closing gate. The sound grew dimmer, was lost, in
the sand of the hoof-cut trail.

After a little, a shot! two! a silence; three! and one as if in reply.
Frances slipped to her knees beside the open window, a sob as bitter
as the pang of death rising from her breast. She prayed that Alan
Macdonald might ride fast, and that the vindictive hands of his
enemies might be unsteady that night by the gray riverside.

CHAPTER V

IF HE WAS A GENTLEMAN

"Don't you think we'd better drop it now, Frances, and be good?"

Major King reined his horse near hers as he spoke, and laid his hand
on the pommel of her saddle as if he expected to meet other fingers
there.

"You puzzle me, Major King," she returned, not willing to understand.

They were bringing up the rear of the tired procession which was
returning to the post from the ball. Already the east was quickening.
The stars near the horizon were growing pale; the morning wind was
moving, with a warmth in it from the low places, like a tide toward
the mountains.

"Oh, I mean this play acting of estrangement," said he, impatiently.
"Let's forget it--it doesn't ca